


Baker, Beekeeper, Sergeant, Spy

by aunt_zelda



Category: Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beekeeping, Established Relationship, F/F, Misses Clause Challenge, Other, Post-Canon, Spies & Secret Agents, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 23:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: In which Polly trains bodyguards, has dinner with Mal, founds a spy network, and muses on the hierarchy of bees.





	Baker, Beekeeper, Sergeant, Spy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wishandripen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishandripen/gifts).



> I was delighted to get this assignment! I hope I've written you something you enjoy. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Arkham for beta-reading.

The war is averted, for the meantime. Polly and Mal linger at the General’s HQ, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The squat stone fortress does not take to the word “summer palace” gracefully, but apparently that’s what it once was. Now it’s swiftly being converted into the central hub of Borogravian’s governance. Currently, that means a jumbled mess of nobles and generals getting in each other’s way while servants scurry about doing the real work.

Polly begins to develop an idea, as the days turn to weeks. There are a great many wealthy Borogravian ladies these days without husbands or grown sons to contend with in their lives. The wars claimed so many. Polly has noticed that a new group has begun to form: women who worked hard and hoarded and saved and now, wars over, find themselves with means and money and the freedom to indulge.

They are also targeted. Bandits, deserters from the army and farmers whose lands were ruined, see these new women as easy pickings. Some are, some aren’t. Polly muses on this as she patrols the palace walls.

“I’ve had an idea,” Polly declares to Mal over dinner one night. As a favor to the General they dine alone and not with the enlisted men. Polly has to fetch food from the kitchens herself as often as not – too many girls have fled upon the prospect of delivering a vampire “an evening drink.”

“Oh?” Mal raises one perfect eyebrow. “What sort of idea?”

“I thought I might train up some of the girls here in combat and survival methods.”

“Not a bad thought.” Mal shrugs. “Self defense classes?”

“To start with, yes. But eventually I’d want to train them up as bodyguards for ladies.”

“Surely ladies would prefer big strapping men as bodyguards? Especially if they have plenty of money.”

Polly shakes her head. “It’s expected for a lady of a certain degree of wealth and property to have a maid or two following her around at all times. Big armed uniformed men would be too obvious and they wouldn’t be able to accompany the lady everywhere. Maids could.”

“That’s an astute observation.”

Polly wants to blush and clamps down on that impulse, willing her cheeks to remain cold and placid. “That’s the idea. Nobody looks twice at a maid, unless she’s very pretty. And they certainly never suspect her of hiding a knife under her petticoat.” She waves her dinner knife illustratively.

Mal’s eyes trail from the blade to Polly’s wrist, then back to her face. Mal takes a slow and deliberate drink of coffee. 

“I just have to train them properly.” Polly carefully resumes her dinner.

~*~

They’re a motley crew, Polly’s recruits. Before her stands a smattering of village girls and palace servants: rough hands and scrubbed faces and proudly mended clothing.

Polly realizes with a start that she’s supposed to say something and she doesn’t know how to begin. Is she supposed to start bellowing at them, like Strapi had all those lifetimes ago?

No, that isn’t the way. These girls have been yelled at by Strapis all their lives.

“My name is Polly Perks,” she begins, voice carrying across the courtyard. “You will address me as ‘Sergeant Perks.’ Is that understood?”

The girls glance at each other.

“Er … yes miss … Sergeant Perks?” ventures one of the laundry girls.

“Try that again, like you mean it.” Polly folds her arms.

“Yes, Sergeant Perks?”

“Again.”

“Yes, Sergeant Perks!”

Polly nods. “Good. Now, all of you: is that understood?”

“YES, SERGEANT PERKS!”

Distantly, a couple of doves take off in a panic.

Polly smiles at her soldiers.

~*~

Training is hard but not so hard as Polly had feared. Years at the inn had given Polly a knack for giving orders and the army had given her the drive to lead. The girls are determined to succeed and push themselves and one another further.

Mal starts attending training sessions, assisting and sparring with Polly as demonstrations for the girls. Mal also instructs the girls in manners, decorum, which fork is appropriate for afternoon luncheon, and a hundred other things that Polly feels unable to provide.

Soon, one by one, the girls are snapped up by the eager noble women of Borogravia. It was a diverting way to occupy her time but Polly sees the last girl off with a salute and sighs, returning to the monotony of life at the Summer Palace. She and Mal have dinner. She and Mal patrol the battlements. She and Mal ignore the comments from the enlisted men. She and Mal tack up heavy cloth over the lone window in the room they share together after Mal confesses to mild discomfort from the sunlight in the morning. 

As the weeks turn to months, the girls bring Polly things. Gifts of thanks in their own ways: ribbons, scarves, an ingenious series of straps to press a dagger to her forearm underneath a sleeve. They send coffee to Mal: familiar blends and new concoctions Mal is all too eager to experiment with in the evenings after a sparring session. 

They girls also send Polly information. Lady S- meets with lots of foreigners without alerting the ruling government. Lady L- inflates the price of wool in her lands and pockets the excess profits for herself. Lady T- had a young lover but he’s recently vanished and incidentally, there’s a fresh patch of dirt in her garden next to the rose bushes.

Polly has, without intending to, set up an intricate spy network with herself at the head.

There are jobs soldiers aren’t meant to do. That ladies aren’t meant to do. (Polly chews on the word ‘ladies’ a bit. It doesn’t quite feel right, but she’s not entirely certain why that is.)

Investigation. Sabotage. Prevention of war.

No more wars, that much is certain. No more wars means stopping them before they even begin and that means a lot of work in the shadows, beyond the notice of powerful posturing men.

Polly heads down to dinner with Mal, her head buzzing with ideas.

~*~

“Enter!” barks General Froc.

Mal opens the door and Polly enters first.

General Froc’s office is not especially large or lavish. Much of it is taken up by stacks of paperwork, including two chairs near the desk Polly expects used to be graced by the backsides of officers once upon a time.

There’s a picture of the Duchess on the wall but it’s not the familiar squat woodcut scattered about in every room in Borogravia. It’s an image of a much younger Duchess, a vivacious looking woman in a gown of green. She has the sort of bosom that could launch armadas, which the artist seemed to have lovingly detailed. It’s her eyes that draw Polly however, sparkling and so achingly alive.

“Thank you for seeing us, General,” Mal offers, standing at attention slightly behind Polly’s shoulder.

“At ease, men – er, at ease,” General Froc says belatedly.

Polly and Mal settle into what passes for ease these days.

“Time is short, Sergeant. What is it you wished to discuss?” General Froc asks.

Polly speaks quickly. “The bodyguards we’ve been training, those that serve as protection to the ladies of Borogravia. They’ve been passing along intelligence to me, sir. Nothing substantial as of yet, but it gave me an idea. I would like to request permission to form a small squad, subject to your authority, to engage in the suppression of warmongering.”

“Suppression?” General Froc quirks an eyebrow.

“Think of it as … preventative espionage, sir,” Mal suggests. “Actionable intelligence to prevent wars before they come to fruition.”

General Froc leans back, contemplating. “What I am about to tell you does not leave this office, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Polly and Mal say nearly in unison.

“Borogravia cannot afford another war. It would ruin us. There would likely be no Borogravia afterwards. We’ve been more than bloodied - we’ve been beaten. It’s only by the grace of the Duchess that we crawled off the last field and I pray that was the last field indeed. One more will kill us dead as doorknobs.” General Froc straightens up. “This idea has been suggested before, over the years, by various men and … other men,” the General quirks an eyebrow meaningfully this time. “In the past, it was shot down. Now … we are inclined to try anything. What do you require?”

Polly jolts back into her practiced lines. “Funding, easily concealable weapons, horses, a seal of your approval we can show to fellow soldiers to prove we move under your authority.”

General Froc nods at each request. “And who shall form this squad?”

“I would prefer to lead it myself, sir, with Corporal Maladict. And there are a few former soldiers I would like to recruit.”

“I have no doubt,” the General half mutters. “Are any of your young bodyguards eager for the life of a soldier?”

“A few, perhaps.”

“Janet, certainly. And perhaps Mariah.” Mal muses.

“I shall draft a budget and begin issuing orders for your supplies. Make your selections and bring me a report listing them off. You shall generate consistent and detailed reports, which will be for my eyes only at the start. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quite right, Sergeant Perks,” General Froc begins shuffling papers. “A budget for your … squadron. Special forces?”

“Very special, sir.” Polly says, face rigid.

“Indeed.” The General nods curtly. “Carry on, Sergeant Perks.” He nods to Mal as well. “Corporal. Dismissed.”

Polly and Mal salute smartly and take their leave.

“Very well done, Sergeant.” Mal whispers, as soon as they’ve rounded a corner. They’re in a dusty hallway that gets very little foot traffic. 

Polly smiles and pushes Mal against the wall. Her hands are on the vampire’s shoulders and their hips are quite close. “At ease, Corporal.” 

That’s an order Mal has never hesitated to take from her. 

~*~

Igorina takes some persuading. She’s much more amenable to the offer after Polly assures her that her role will be strictly as a kind of traveling barber-surgeon, no combat required. She’ll be part disguise artist, part medic in case of wounds when Polly and her soldiers are far from aid.

“There’s only so much that paints and dyes can do,” Polly says. “With your skills, our disguises will be able to withstand close scrutiny.”

“If your thecret tholdiers are willing,” Igorina cautions. “Not everyone isth as brave as you, Thergeant.”

Polly scowls. “They’ll have to be, to join this regiment.”

“That much ish true.” Igorina holds out her hand.

Polly shakes, taking note of the six fingers. “Useful?”

“I always have an extra, close at hand.” Igorina giggles. “Old clan joke, thorry.”

Polly cracks a smile.

~*~

Wazzer … or rather, Alice, isn’t on Polly’s list per se. Polly just feels obligated to visit her, drawn to the small room near the General’s quarters with the large windows facing the sunrise and a strong lock on the inside of the door.

Polly knows that whatever magic ran through Alice is long gone, dead and buried with the Duchess properly. Perhaps it’s her soldier’s superstition but she feels any blessing or foresight from Alice is worth having regardless. The Duchess didn’t pick any random Borogravian girl after all: she picked Alice specifically.

The door is open and swings inwards when Polly knocks. Alice is in the process of putting on a strange sort of garment, padded cloth with a helmet head made of thin fabric.

“Oh, hello Polly,” Alice says. “I was hoping you would visit before your journey.”

Polly isn’t that surprised Alice knows about the squad already. Either she reads the General’s reports and advises him, or she … found out, somehow. Even now, too many men act like women have no ears.

“I was just going to visit the Queen, would you accompany me?”

Carefully, Polly follows Alice down the hall and up the stairs to the rooftop. These aren’t the battlements; it looks like a forgotten slip of castle roof that time forgot. There are a few weather-worn chairs up here, the ashes from someone’s regular smoke breaks, and some broken glass from a bottle Polly hopes no one was drinking while on duty.

There is also a collection of newer looking structures. Beehives, Polly realizes. Unasked questions find their answers in Polly’s mind.

“I was hoping you might have some advice for us, Wazz … Alice.” Polly coughs.

“For the squad? I’m afraid I won’t be much help there, Polly. I’m quite content here. And when I led armies, it was in the bright of day.”

Polly nods and watches Alice tend to the bees. It’s not something Polly has any particular experience with, so she observes with keen eyes in case the information might be useful later down the road. One never knows.

“Do say hello to Tonker and Lofty for me, will you? I was … pleased to hear what they did to the School after we disbanded.”

“Of course,” Polly agrees.

“Thank you,” Alice says, replacing a cover to one of the droning hives. “I find this work … soothing.”

Polly waits for elaboration.

Eventually, it comes. Alice seems less inclined to speeches these days, but her voice carries clearly on the rooftop.

“There’s a Queen of course, and around her forms the hive. And then there are worker bees, carrying out her will, venturing forth for pollen from flowers to bring back and convert into honey nectar. Did you know, Polly, that all the worker bees are females too?” Alice turns her helmeted head to Polly.

In a moment, there’s a flash of the Alice that was, coursing with the power of the Duchess and striding forward to peace. And then, just as suddenly, she’s gone.

“Thank you, Alice,” Polly says carefully.

“Good fortunes to you and your soldiers, Polly,” Alice says, turning back to the hives.

Polly leaves Alice with her Queen and court.

~*~

Finding Tonker and Lofty is easier said than done. It takes a lot of searching, bribes, and begging.

Polly enters the bakery curious, not certain what to expect. Lofty tending the fire is familiar enough, but the delicate way she takes a tray of muffins from the oven is not.

“Hello, Lofty,” Polly says levelly.

Lofty does not drop the tray, but it’s a near thing. She does cry out though, which is enough to bring Tonker bolting from the back room, rolling pin held like a sword.

Seeing Polly and Mal, Tonker sets down the rolling pin.

They all sit down for tea and scones, coffee for Mal fetched from a high shelf.

“Nobody ‘round here drinks it, but well, we thought you might be dropping by someday,” Tonker explains.

Polly notes that Tonker’s arms are huge and muscular, and her waist is thick as a tree. Retirement has suited her, that much is certain.

Polly notes that Lofty looks calmer than she did in the army. There are a few new burn scars on her forearms, but none seem especially fresh. Her hair is tied back with a ribbon, an orange strip of fabric that stands out against her dark locks.

She makes her proposal without much hope of winning them over. It’s clear that Tonker and Lofty have found their room with chocolates, even if it is a room they have to maintain as a working bakery and live in a loft above the shop. Polly leans back and feels Mal’s hand on her shoulder, feels a squeeze of support from coffee-warmed fingers. 

Tonker and Lofty stare at each other for several minutes after Polly has finished speaking. Finally, Lofty takes Tonker’s hand in hers and squeezes.

“We’ll do it.” Tonker says. “Not forever, mind, and we’ll have to return here every month on the regular, but we’ll do it.”

“No more wars.” Lofty murmurs. “No more orphaned girls.”

Mal smiles with far too much fang and Polly nods grimly.

~*~

It takes a month to assemble a squad, two weeks to get everyone in fighting form once more, and a further eleven days before any actionable intelligence comes Polly’s way. But the intelligence is worth the wait.

In the darkness, Polly crouches behind a tree. The fresh scar from Igornia itches vaguely, and the sight of her dark hair startled her after the dye set in.

Ahead of her is an encampment. A collection of Borogravian nobles who’d like nothing better than to stir up another conflict with Zlobenia have gathered in secret in the woods. Polly was informed by one of the maids she instructed, whose mistress has been dallying with a groom to one of these nobles. To stop this in its tracks, Polly needs their names, titles, and how many men they have assembled in the woods.

Before her, she knows Tonker and Lofty are hidden in a barn loft, ready to set it ablaze. Lofty will set the fire and Tonker will drag Lofty out before the flames become too alluring.

Behind her is Janet, a former assistant to the assistant to the assistant laundress from the palace. She lost a father, uncle, and three brothers to the wars, and she’s determined to make this mission a success.

Somewhere close by in the darkness is Mal. Polly’s not completely sure where, but she has the sense of a generalized closeness. Perhaps to some it’s unnerving. But to Polly it’s comforting.

“No more wars,” Polly whispers.

“No more wars,” they echo.

Polly sneaks around the tree and heads for the camp.


End file.
